Masquerade (38 page)

She angled up a flowered path. Her shoulder throbbed like hell. She felt light-headed. She had to hide. To her right stood a row of private houses with iron rails guarding their depressed basement areas. She leaped over a rail and landed quietly next
to trash cans. Dust rolled up, coating the lab coat dirty gray. She repressed a sneeze. The trash reminded her of Flores and their frantic escape from the Ranch in the garbage truck. It seemed like months had passed, but today was Saturday, and that must have happened on Thursday—only two days ago.

So many events . . . so much . . . everything! . . . had changed since then. And it seemed she was thinking more often of Asher, and how appealing she found his crazy, sweet, cocky self. What was wrong with her?

God, her shoulder hurt.

Then she heard footsteps on the sidewalk above. She'd have to move again.

Silently she melted back toward the dark house and felt her way around the side. That's when she got a glimpse of heaven: A flight of steps led to a high stone wall with a gate. She ran lightly up and opened it. Before her spread an eerie sight—a vast, old cemetery. A sea of bone-pale limestone and granite crosses and monuments stood as ghostly white as she must have been in her dusty lab coat.

She blessed her good fortune and hustled off, her shoulder burning terribly, scrapes and bruises aching. She was a weary, bloody wraith in clothes as chalky as the stone statues she hugged for cover.

Christine Robitaille's computer shop was about to close. Asher Flores nodded good-bye to her sales assistant and pushed out through the door into the gay
cité
evening. Without warning, three men emerged smoothly from the shadows and jammed shielded guns into his flesh. Like tourists they wore shorts and loose, open-necked shirts, and they jostled around pretending to be old friends in a partying mood who'd bumped into him unexpectedly.

“Good to see you, Asher, old pal!” The speaker removed Asher's Gunsite Service Pistol from beneath his arm, and, in a small, tight group, they pushed him down the sidewalk.

Bremner's men. How the hell had they found him so soon?

“Flores, you've fucked up big time,” a second man advised in a low growl. “Only one thing's going to save your lying ass this time. Where's Sarah Walker?”

“Hey, when you guys find her, let me know,” Asher said innocently. “That's what I've been doing myself. Looking for her. Tried everything. Hughes asked me to help out, you know.”

“You never give up, do you, Flores?”

“Give up? I try to help, and all I get is guns in my ribs. What kind of thanks is that?” Sweat formed on Asher's forehead. Had Interpol alerted Christine Robitaille? When she'd gone into her office, had she reported him? Or had someone finally thought to track him through Gordon's code?

“In here, asshole.” One of the men shoved Asher toward an alley. A dark-blue Renault was waiting next to a crumbling brick wall about twenty-five feet away. As one of the men unlocked the door, Asher coughed.

“Don't try it, Flores!”

“Jeez, you people are jumpy. So, tell me where you've been, and I'll tell you where I've been. We'll quit wasting time.”

“Right.” The first man swung open the door to the back seat. “Play dumb. You don't have a clue who nuked Matt Lister and the new kid, Beno Durante, in Denver, right?”

“Denver?” Asher waited for someone to push him toward the car door. He wanted that push. Wanted the momentum—

“Get in, chickenshit.” It was the third man. His lips curled with revulsion. In their business a turned agent was more hated than a cop killer. To them, Asher had turned.

Asher stalled. “Not until you tell me what's going down.”

There was no shove. They were too smart for that.

“Hey, come on, guys—” he tried again, but from behind a hard hand slammed down on the soft spot between Asher's shoulder and neck. A wave of pain engulfed him. He felt himself topple. Before he could recover, someone shoved him into the open car door. He flopped onto the seat. His legs sprawled out onto the alley's cobblestones. They weren't going to give him an opportunity to turn their momentum back on them. They—

“Don't move!” It was a woman's voice. “Any of you!”

Asher lifted his head. For a moment he didn't recognize her.
“Walker! What in hell's happened to you? Watch these three clowns!” And then he saw she didn't need the advice. Her gaze never left Bremner's three men as she prowled warily down the dark alley toward them. She held her Beretta in both hands, cool and steady, ready for business. Christ, she'd been wounded: She'd got a long dirty white coat from somewhere, and a lot of fresh red blood plastered it to her left shoulder and chest! Her face was ashen and filthy beneath wild black hair that stuck out all around her head. She looked as if she'd just been in a fight to the death . . . and won!

“That's Sarah Walker?” one of the trio asked, stunned.

The three men raised their eyebrows at each other, suddenly cautious. One remained where he was covering Asher. The other two turned and moved toward her, aiming their weapons.

“Back up! Drop your guns!” She fired at their feet. The bullets hit the cobblestones and whined.

“Our orders are to bring you—”

Before he could finish, Asher kicked the guy who was guarding him so hard in the knees he heard a pop. The guy crashed back.

“Freeze, Flores!” It was one of the two men who'd been focused on Sarah. “We don't have to bring
you
in alive!”

But Asher was lightning fast. The guy he'd kicked had dropped Asher's pistol. Asher dove. The man raised himself up, while at the same time the other two turned like vipers and hurtled down the alley at Sarah.

“Stop!” Sarah yelled at the same time Asher rolled and fired. The fallen man's temple erupted in blood and bone as he twisted sideways still kicking, trying to attack. Asher came up on his knees in time to see the other two closing in on Sarah. A new, chilling look flashed into her eyes. It was as if a huge floodlight had turned on in her brain.

“Oh, shit!” She fired twice.

Instantly she realized all her questions about who and what she was had vanished in the accuracy and dispassion of those two shots. At such close range, the pair blasted back limp as straw men, blood splattering across the dark cobblestones, bullets in their hearts. She'd had no time for niceties like aiming
for legs or shoulders. There were two of them; one of her. It was their lives, or a date for her with Bremner's satanic doctor.

Like the sudden release of an overinflated balloon, her fear of incompetence evaporated. Her rage vaporized. What was left were resolve and inevitability. Bremner had made a fatal mistake. She was now Sarah Walker
and
Liz Sansborough. Both of them in one person, the union engraved on her cortex.

The alley was suddenly quiet. Traffic flowed normally on the street beyond. Asher took her arm. “Walker? Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I'm fine, Flores. Let's get out of here.”

She made a vow to herself in that moment: She'd never let that bastard Bremner get away with anything again.

Chapter 43

But Sarah and Asher didn't move. In the thin light of the Paris alley, they stared at each other across the three dead bodies.

“Christ,” Asher breathed. He had that visceral sense he'd been waiting for her, and only her, all his life.

“Asher?” She had a sudden desire for marriage, and an instant jarring shock that such an idea could cross her mind. Permanence? Commitment? Her? Now?

“What?” he said.

In the distance a siren began to rise and fall, and what she'd been about to say was gone. She turned to the dead men's car. “You'd better drive,” she said. She fell into the front seat of the dark-blue Renault, her Beretta on her lap, holding her throbbing shoulder.

He found car keys on one of the corpses, slid behind the wheel, and drove out of the alley.

“How bad's your wound?” Flores worried. “You need a doctor?”

“The bullet didn't go deep. Just across the top of my shoulder. I need antiseptic and some antibacterial cream. Aspirin for the pain. I had a tetanus shot at the Ranch.” She dropped her head back, finally allowing herself to feel the depths of her weariness.

“Where's your day pack?”

“In Dr. Levine's office at Je Suis Chez Moi.”

“Dr. Levine's—!” He glanced at her exhausted face. “No.
You can tell me later. First we need to get you medical supplies, and then you've got to rest. I found a hotel as secure as we can get. I'll sneak you upstairs and go out for fresh clothes later. Okay?”

“Sounds good.” Suddenly she picked up her Beretta and took out the clip. It was empty. She stared at it, then up at Asher. If she hadn't had that last bullet—? But she had, and she smiled at him.

Asher thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful, so exciting as that exhausted smile on that dirt-streaked face.

Her smile widened. “I drugged Dr. Levine. It was a real strong dose. I'll always treasure that moment.”

At night Paris turned on the charm. Lamplight and music mingled in the boulevards. The aromas of cologne, full-bodied table wines, and exotic tobaccos drifted from doorways. Beneath the starry night sky, the helicopter carrying Gordon Taite landed atop the massive Tour Languedoc. He rode the elevator down one floor to France's secret heart of U.S. intelligence, and then from his temporary office he summoned the M
ASQUERADE
team.

“Report.”

They told him Sarah Walker had been captured trying to break into Je Suis Chez Moi.

Gordon's face darkened. “Where is she? Bremner'll want—”

“He's en route. He was told,” the senior of the Paris team said. “But . . . she escaped again. She—”

“What!” Gordon glared at the Paris man. “How?”

“The doctor wanted to talk to her alone, so he dismissed her guards. She slipped some kind of street drug into his drink, got her gun away from him, and killed some of our people. She was hit but got away. Levine's out of it until tomorrow.”

“When tomorrow? Once we repair his fucking damage and pick up Walker again, he's got a job to do.”

“We don't know, sir. His assistant's with him. She's assured us he'll be fine. And if he isn't, she can take over.”

Gordon crossed his arms over his muscled chest and frowned.
He didn't much like that pompous dilettante Allan Levine, but Hughes Bremner—and M
ASQUERADE
—needed him.

“What about Asher Flores?” he demanded.

The dozen men and women looked at one another.

“Tell me!” Gordon snapped.

“He got away, too, sir.” The senior team member described what the backup crew had discovered when the original three-man team had failed to report in. “The Paris cops were all over that alley like pigeons on birdseed. We couldn't get a thing. All we know is our car's gone, three of our people are dead, and the Frogs want to know what in hell we're doing shooting up their country without consulting them first. You'll be getting a call.”

“I'm sure I will. Who'd we lose?” He listened to the dead men's names and shook his head. “They were damn good people. So, where does that leave us?”

The team took turns detailing the spreading of the web Gordon had ordered earlier—two dozen regular agents on phones and visiting hotels throughout the city and suburbs asking for Asher Flores's cover names. And if that failed, giving descriptions and showing photos of both Flores and Walker. They also were conducting a search for the missing Languedoc car and talking to pharmacies and doctors who might have seen a woman with a gunshot wound on the left shoulder.

“We have her day pack with all her identification and money,” the team leader said. “If she gets stopped for anything, she'll be in trouble with no passport. She was carrying a shit-load of dough in cash and traveler's checks. We assume she'll join up with Flores again, and that he has plenty more to give her. But where'd she get so much in the first place, boss?”

“Flores, of course. The bastard embezzled one of our funds.” Gordon glared at them as if they were responsible for the humiliation of Walker stealing his code and passing it to Flores. He lifted his chin and gave them a cool gaze the way Bremner did. They were the best, top operatives from all across Europe. “I've been authorized to offer a $50,000 private reward to whoever finds Walker. You've got only twenty hours.” Sincerity flooded his voice. He was sharing with them a sacred trust: “Hughes Bremner—and Langley—are counting on you!”

Each member of the team nodded soberly. They were the best, and they knew it. They had ways to accomplish assignments no one else could ever know. They'd find Sarah Walker.

Tall and brick, the classic Hotel Aphrodite had been built in the nineteenth century. It was fringed by wood-shuttered double windows. Period florals papered the walls, and the gold-leafed public rooms offered secretarial services, business machines, and elegant carts selling everything from hand-painted flowerpots to peaches soaked in Armagnac.

As Asher sneaked her up a back staircase, Sarah tried to savor the luxury despite her throbbing shoulder, bruises, and exhaustion. In their room, she went straight to the bathroom. It boasted a bidet, hair dryer, and lotions, but she barely noticed as she took a double dose of aspirin, stripped painfully out of her clothes, and slipped into one of the hotel's soft, thick robes.

She emerged and sat at the table. Asher opened a bottle of antiseptic. She lowered the robe from her shoulder and told him about Je Suis Chez Moi. The wound was an angry raw channel across the top of her trapezius muscle. He pursed his lips, listened as she talked, and gently swabbed antiseptic into the open wound.

When she'd finished, he said, “So you have no idea how Bremner's going to make these billions Levine talked about?”